Torn Masks and Broken Games
by SnapdragonSmile
Summary: She was a dirty faced urchin, now she is an eminent politician's wife. Marisa has learned to be cynical, that there are certain dreams that must be forgotten. Asriel wants her to break the rules. Worse, he makes her want it too. MarisaAsriel.
1. High Above London

PAIRINGS: Marisa/Asriel, One-sided Marisa/Boreal and Marisa/Edward

"It is not the perfect but the imperfect who have need of love."

---Oscar Wilde

She couldn't quite believe she was there. The window of the zeppelin looked down on London, every person invisible and building miniature in comparison with herself. She could see the spires of the Magesterium, in life so grand and yet now so doll-like. She could see the clean, bleak lines of the oldest, wealthiest homes. She could see the slums, tiny dots running across the streets in rapid patterns.

Marisa could picture them. They would be children, painfully thin, their daemons shifting into ever-fiercer forms, their fur always ragged. Their faces would be pinched, dirt streaked across them. She ran a alabaster finger across the pristine fur of her own daemon and he clutched her leg, trying to forget he had ever been a rat scuttling between her scraped legs, sniffing the street for danger.

The Lady, they had called her. She was Mary Shaw, the girl who thought she was too good for them. The one who wouldn't play their games, who would only come along with them when it was time to pick a pocket. And then she was as fierce as the rest of them, perhaps more.

Marisa smoothed down her skirt. There was no sense in dwelling. She was here now, flying above London. Here she would stay.

Edward sat across from her, scribbling on sheets of paper while his fox daemon darted between his legs. He ran a hand through his sparse, mousy hair and seeming to notice her gaze, looked up at Marisa.

"I'm sorry, darling. I have so much paperwork. Not much of a honeymoon, is it?" he snorted, his fox moving towards her monkey, who instinctively clung closer to his mistress, wrapping himself around her leg.

"It's nothing. We'll make up for it later, shall we?" Marisa let a slow, honey smile move over her face, gently pushing her monkey away from her and towards the fox.

The monkey obeyed. In the end, he always obeyed. He darted glances back to Marisa but she gave him a fierce gaze and he began stroking the fox's back.

Marisa sat back, satisfied. The honeymoon was over. Edward had bewailed their departure from Florence, insisting he would not soon have her to himself again. She had indulged him, pretended to be equally upset, raking her fingers through his hair and calling him her love.

Actually, she had been feeling stifled and restless for the last few weeks. She longed to have something to do, to know that she was influencing something or someone. She would tell Edward she was shopping and actually spend the days roaming the sidewalks, the monkey relishing the moments of freedom. She knew nobody in Florence. There was nobody to snare but Edward and he was already hers. Sometimes she would laugh inside as he would whisper romantic foolishness in her ear.

Marisa did not believe in love, or at least not love between two people, any love besides that of human and daemon. Unlike most cynics, she wasn't depressed by the lack of grand, sweeping meaning that foolish optimists imagined. This was the world she lived in. She would make the best of it.

When she was young and dirt caked her clothes, she would dream of a prince. She would not have to pretend for him. He would be fascinated by every word that fell from her lips, even the incessant ramblings she had since trained herself not to speak. He would not need to be kind or noble. He would be like Marisa. He would understand her.

He would stride, ever proud, into her slum, passing the little groups on the street corners without a second look, barely noticing the falling houses lining the streets. He would climb her steps, not even knocking at her door. He would brush the dirt off her face and see that she was beautiful, as she already knew she could be. She would ride away with him and never set foot on those roads again.

Marisa laughed a little at her memories. There was no prince. There was Edward, there was Boreal, there were a thousand other men who needed to be indulged, seduced and caressed. Men who needed to feel important, needed to feel loved, who had a thousand little insecurities she could play on.

Nobody would ever understand her and that suited her well enough.

"Darling?" Edward's voice broke her reverie. Marisa cursed herself for letting herself slip away once more. She had been dreaming more and more in Edward's presence lately.

"Yes?" She shoved away her thoughts, the monkey standing a little straighter, twisting her face into a smile.

Edward held a piece of stiff, cream paper in his hand.

"You may be too tired for this, after all, we are just back to London but I've found this and I was wondering---"

Edward broke off as the monkey snatched the invitation from his fingers and ran back to Marisa. She shot the monkey a sharp look.

"Don't you do that," she hissed, her cheeks growing hot. She could hear traces of Cockney creeping into her voice, as they always did when she was angry.

The monkey ignored her and extended his arm with the invitation to her. Marisa, careful not to seem too eager, looked at the invitation, her face impassive.

It was some sort of soiree, hosted by Boreal, taking place that night. The monkey began jumping more and more as Marisa read. She placed a hand on his back to calm him, stroking his golden fur.

"It's really," Edward explained, "though unspoken, been held for some Artic explorer who has just gotten back from the North. Apparently he's found some fascinating discoveries and all of London wants to speak to him."

"Is that so?" Marisa mused, running her finger over the edge of the invitation. The North. That had been another of her childhood dreams, when she was very young. It had long passed.

Just the same, she might like to speak to the man.

"I think we should go," she announced, her voice far sharper than she liked, the monkey still doing twitching dances on the floor.

"Do you think?" Edward frowned, "I thought I would like one last night of you to myself before we enter London. And though I don't know about you, I'm incredibly tired."

She decided it was best to pretend. Marisa rose from her seat, standing behind Edward and placing her hands on his thin shoulders.

"Oh, me as well," she whispered into his ear, her lips grazing his face, "Darling, there's nothing more---"

She broke off, running a finger across Edward's cheek. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see her monkey raking his hands through the fox's fur. A smile teased her face. They were in this together.

"But," she made her tone apologetic, "There will be all sorts of important people at the party. And if the man has made important discoveries, he'll be a valuable friend for you."

"You're right, of course," Edward groaned, "I'd just prefer..."

"So would I," she lied, breathing into his ear, "So would I."

Marisa was coated in gold. She always wanted gold. There was the flashing gold of the jewelry she could see on the necks of women in hansom cabs, visible for a split second before the women would draw their curtains and lock their doors, their daemons occasionally pulling the curtains open once more for a look. There was the gold leaf that would coat the roofs of the buildings she would see when she wandered far enough from home, stinging her eyes but sating her mind.

Marisa was gold tonight. Her light-catching dress that swished round her feet was gold, the necklace that rested on the white skin of her neck reflected gold.

"You look beautiful," the monkey marveled, gazing at his mistress like he had never seen her before.

"We do, don't we?" Marisa gave her daemon a conspiratorial grin, her smile much more like the mischievous one she used to hold. The monkey moved closer and she scooped him up in her arms, stroking his fur. Marisa loved him more than she would have thought she was capable. She didn't place much in honesty but she was honest with him.

"So," she began, "first thing we do is go to Carlo and get him to introduce us to the explorer."

The explorer. She didn't even know his name but he already seemed to suggest something to her, something of a rougher, more dangerous world outside the sharp, false light of her London.

"Don't act like a silly girl about it, Marisa," the monkey chastised, "He's probably eighty years old and five feet tall with more wrinkles than Lord Tarial and teeth the color of the papers in the Artic Museum."

The monkey bared his own teeth to demonstrate. Marisa gave a short, guttural, unladylike laugh, the sort of laugh that nobody at the party would ever hear.

"I'm not going to make him my lover!" she protested, "For once, I'm curious about the North!"

"And if he's important enough," the monkey groaned, "You will anyway. And I'll have to put my hands all over some scaly explorer's daemon."

"We will not!" Marisa hissed as the monkey looked skeptical.

She heard a knock on the door and the monkey, in an instant, leapt to her side and began grooming his fur, docile.

"Come in." Marisa made her voice higher, lighter, sweeter.

Edward opened the door and for a second, his eyes glazed over at the sight of her, the fox creeping closer to the monkey as though it desperately wanted to touch but was afraid to sully the monkey by its mere presence. The monkey looked up at Marisa and gave her a proud, satisfied look.

"You are beautiful," he breathed.

Marisa chose not to respond, giving him a small smile and smoothing down her dress.

"Shall we go?" She let a beatific smile touch her face and took Edward's dry, papery hand.

She was ready for anything.

There was a heady thrill to this, to playing nonchalant while really planning her every move. The monkey clasped his hands together, jumping around in quick little movements and Marisa had to put her hand on his head to make him calm. Her other arm was held around Edward's waist, a half-smile teasing her face.

She sipped at her champagne, holding the taste in her mouth before letting herself swallow. Even after nearly three years of this new London, she was still astounded by the flash of jewels on women's necks, the bittersweet taste of champagne, the feel of soft leather in the seats of a cab, this luxury that seemed to invade every bit of life.

Marisa let her eyes scan the room. There seemed to be nobody new. There was Lady Sariela with her pinched face and extravagant jewels, her raccoon daemon watching the room, sniffing for scandal. There was Boreal, his face ever-twisted into the same sycophantic expression. There were a thousand copies of the same woman and same man, all speaking the same words and thinking the same thoughts.

Marisa laughed to herself and took another sip of champagne.

"You almost missed one," the monkey whispered into her ear, pointing towards a corner.

Marisa could see a form in shadow, clearly a man, leaning against the wall. He was sipping at what looked like whiskey, turning gold where light touched it.

"That's nothing," she hissed. Still, she turned her body slightly to be able to see the man. She'd rarely seen anyone at one of these parties avoiding the crowd. She could see dark hair and a tall form before turning her face back to Edward's.

"Do you think it's the explorer?" the monkey whispered, more excited than she thought he should be.

"No," Marisa whispered back, "The explorer would be in the crowd. This man's probably just a footman who sneaked upstairs."

The monkey's face took on a dubious look. Marisa thought it seemed fairly unlikely herself. The man seemed too proud, too indifferent for that. A sneaking servant would be worried. This man looked frightened of nothing.

Still, Marisa thought as she turned her head towards the wall where the man stood, this man seemed different from the others at the party. He was young, for starters, looking only a few years older than she was. Marisa was used to being one of the youngest at these parties. Edward was nearing forty and Boreal was still older. And his daemon was a proud snow leopard, as watchful as the man himself was indifferent.

"He has to be the explorer," the monkey whispered, "He just has to."

"Excuse me," Marisa tried to make her voice as sweet as she could, waiting for a break in the conversation, "Who is that man?"

"That is," said a drab man across from her with an eagle daemon, "Lord Asriel Belacqua. He's just come back from the North."


	2. Looking and Seeing

And once the question was gone from Marisa's lips, the conversation would not leave the young explorer. Ever wilder rumors fell from the mouths of both men and women, tinges of fact slipping in occasionally.

So much for civilized society.

The less gossipy had long since excused themselves from the group, claiming a need for fresh air or a drink. Edward had walked away, the fox wrinkling her nose, disdainful of the gossip flowing from every tongue and mingling together.

The monkey pricked his silken ears, saving every word while Marisa let her own mind wander. The monkey's memory was far better than her's. He never forgot a single detail.

She continued to watch the conversation's subject, the man in the corner. Asriel. He had turned towards her circle, a half-smile on his face, suggesting a slight, bored amusement with them. His daemon was stretching, as though she was waiting for something, an intangible, unpredictable something to happen. Marisa was waiting, too.

Once in a few moments, the monkey would nudge Marisa, breathing words in her ear.

"He was born a wealthy lord and when his father died when he was twelve, he inherited everything. He's made even more in expeditions to the North."

or:

"We were right, he's young. Twenty-eight, only three years older than we are."

or:

"He's got a terrible temper. They say when he was a child he killed the son of one of his servants for no real reason at all. But he got away with it, of course."

or:

"He's not seen much of London, left it straight after college. They say he's taken witch-lovers in the North, though. And one of the maids at Jordan had to leave because of him."

Marisa tensed a little at this particular story, turning to the wall to gauge the Lord's reaction, if he had heard.

His smile had widened, like he wanted to laugh at them. Marisa frowned. Had he heard? She could not read this man, could not tell a thing about him. She turned herself back to the conversation, sipping at her glass, slightly put out. Marisa excused herself from the group in a moment, lowering herself into a chair, scooping the monkey into her pale arms Asriel's eyes followed her, not the group. His eyes were black, the darkest she had ever seen besides her own. She turned her eyes away, skin prickling.

Marisa felt uncomfortable for the first time in years, the first time since those early parties when her jewels lay heavy on her throat and she felt sure someone would spin round and call her his Lordship's whore at any second.

Asriel's eyes stayed on her. He did not seem to be judging her or dumbfounded by her or drinking her in with his eyes. He was not imagining her with him and she found this irritated her. Why was he looking at her? It made her nervous, jittery.

Marisa raised herself from the chair, moving towards the balcony. Eyes turned as she walked past, people trying to catch her gaze. Edward caught her arm as she passed him by, asking her where she was going. She wrenched her arm away and remained silent.

There were strange times when she wondered whether Edward was not worth the power, not worth the status and money. He cared too much. He stifled her.

Marisa wasn't sure what had come over her but she needed to breathe.

Reaching the balcony, she sat on the curved iron bench, her breathing strangely irregular.

"Why are we like this now?" the monkey demanded, his voice high and strained.

"I don't know, I don't know," Marisa breathed, "He... I think it was him. He made me---I don't know."

"I thought he was interesting," The monkey's eyes widened, "Different."

"That he is," Marisa agreed, shivering a little.

They were there a moment, looking out at darkening London. It was still summer and Marisa found herself wanting to sit atop the railing on the balcony, letting her legs swing over the city.

"Someone might see," the monkey reminded her, scolding, and she restrained herself, sitting down once again.

She heard the creak of an opening door, the padding and scratch of paws, hard footfalls echoing after. The monkey tensed, smoothing down his fur and Marisa rose and spun around.

The first thing she saw were green eyes, tilted upward, fixed on the monkey. She raised her own face to see two black eyes staring at her, boring into her. She could see nothing back in them. It was all veiled.

Marisa was suddenly conscious that her elbow-length gloves hid her wedding ring.

"Hello." The man's voice was different. It held the same upper-class, Oxford accent as Edward's but it was deeper, rumbling. There was a wild sharpness behind it she couldn't fathom.

The monkey arched his back.

"Hello," she replied, her own voice sharper than it would have been in the next room.

There was a hanging moment of quiet, the strange eyes never leaving her face. The monkey did a dance round the leopard, trying to get her to break her constant, unchanging stare.

She did not.

"Who are you?" Asriel asked, as though it barely mattered whether she answered.

"Marisa," she answered, moving back and sitting once more.

"Do you have a last name, Marisa?" There was a slight laugh in Asriel's voice. The leopard inched towards the monkey.

"No," she teased, a slight smile stretching over her lips. The monkey imitated her, his teeth glowing, drawing back from the leopard.

"Marisa, then." Asriel smiled himself, a wild, glittering smile.

The leopard extending a paw to the monkey, her eyes slightly less intense.

"Stelmaria," she said in a low voice to the monkey.

"Asriel Belacqua." Her master's tone mirrored her's but was slightly more impassive.

Marisa was impressed by his exclusion of the title from his name---as though he no need to prove who he was.

"But I expect you know that."

"How would I?" she challenged.

"Stelmaria has excellent ears."

"Does she?" Marisa kept her tone icy, "What did she hear?"

The monkey crouched in front of her, eyes challenging. Stelmaria stepped forward, matching him.

It wasn't a fight, not a real, honest fight. It was a game with thousands of little rules and nuances. It was a game Marisa excelled at. But she wasn't the only one .

"Some facts, some lies and some things her master had near forgotten."

"And which is which?" Marisa turned her face upward.

"Oh, wouldn't you like to know," Asriel stated. Stelmaria turned away, her tail swishing.

"Not too desperately, I assure you, my lord."

"So, why aren't you still with the band of harpies?" Asriel leaned against the edge of the balcony.

"I needed air."

"You don't strike me as the sort to leave the crowd."

"What sort am I?"

"You feed on the crowd," Asriel said simply.

Marisa tensed, the monkey in her arms within an instant.

"I must go. I've had all the air I need." Her voice was flat.

"Enjoy your night, Marisa." Asriel's voice seemed to hold a trace more sincerity than it had before.

"Thank you." Marisa softened a little before placing her hand on the door knob to leave. She paused, remembering something.

"Asriel?" She turned around.

"Yes?" He raised an eyebrow.

"When I am back in the hall, you have never met me. You have never spoken to me before. You do not even know my name."

"Of course." Asriel showed no surprise at her demand.

"Thank you." She meant it too.

The monkey threw a last glance at the leopard and followed Marisa into the party.

"Lord Asriel Belacqua."

Here was the official introduction, the proper words, obeying the game rules.

Edward looked uncomfortable. Asriel clearly intimidated him and the fox moved closer to Edward. Marisa watched, the slight smile curving on her lips mirroring Asriel's.

"Edward Coulter," Edward offered, putting his hand out. Asriel shook it and Edward drew his hand away the moment he could, as though it were poisoned.

"And I'm his wife, Marisa."

Marisa kept her captivated, bland smile on, putting out her own hand. Asriel looked at her and there was a spark in his eyes.

She realized what his looks meant. He _saw_ her.

"Charmed," he replied. And they were playing the game once more.


	3. Who I Was, Who I Am

Marisa had been eighteen years old. Most of the girl-children that had wandered the streets with her either begged for coins or had meager work selling flowers on street corners. Many had fallen pregnant and wandered, listless, with infants in their thin arms.

She was determined that these lives would never become her own. The monkey was proud of his settled form, so different from any others she could see but his fur was growing matted, the gold just visible. She was getting still thinner by the day, trying her hardest to get the dirt out of her dark hair.

Everyone was waiting, ready for the downfall of Marisa "Mary" Shaw, the girl stupid enough to think she would ever be somewhere.

"But we weren't stupid, were we?" the monkey would whisper to her later, "We were cleverer than they could ever be."

Marisa would wander at the backs of the manor houses in the other sides of town. She would have to wake early to be home by nightfall. A few times she would enter the servant's door at some of these times, begging for work. A few times they would take pity on the pretty, emaciated girl and give her an apple or a slice of bread but never a job.

Never what she truly wanted.

She tried her best, wore the best clothes she could find, tried to get rid of the dirt and lice crawling from her hair.

Never, never, never.

One house was different, though. One housekeeper couldn't take a scullery maid, especially one without a dog daemon, but did find pity enough to need a girl to carry water and Marisa, wincing at the obvious charity of it, took the job.

And when the real scullery maid was caught with the hall boy and had to be fired, who to hire but that sweet, hardworking girl who carried the water? Nobody could have guessed Marisa had spilled her water on purpose, only so that they could be found by the well?

An innocent girl like her wouldn't be capable.

Marisa felt the gentle tug of the brush on her hair as her maid pulled the pins from her hair. The girl's daemon, a skittish, shy Jack Russell terrier, groomed the fur of the monkey who looked a little too smug at being cared for the way he was.

"Did you have a nice evening, madam?" the maid, Ana, questioned.

"Mmmm," Marisa responded, forgetting her usual composure around the servants. The rest of the evening had been somewhat dull. Marisa had been flitting between different aristocrats who needed to be charmed and flattered, watching Asriel out of the corner of her eye. Sometimes their eyes would meet and she would, in a moment, turn herself back to the person she had been speaking with.

The monkey would sometimes whisper to her that he would be back in the North soon, that she had better not hang her hopes too high, that he had not looked at her as other men looked. Marisa had laughed off his worries, insisting that every man wanted her, looked at her. Still, the questions had stayed in her mind.

"That's well, madam," Ana replied, pulling more pins from Marisa's hair. Ana had always made Marisa a little nervous. Despite her subservient, nervous disposition, she had a perceptive sharpness to her eye that Marisa did not like. If she'd met someone like her in the elegant, spinning upstairs world, Marisa would have found some piece of information to ensure Ana never got in her way. But the girl was just the maid and she was excellent at her job. Unless she found someone better soon, Marisa could not let her go just yet. Once every now and then, she would feel a prick of guilt at the way she would move people and cast them aside. She never felt that way about Edward, about the women who were competition upstairs, about the lovers who she would send away as soon as she was done with them. The maids, however, reminded her enough of her former self to make her a little uneasy. As soon as the thought would enter her mind, though, she would cast it aside.

"Yes," Marisa replied, her frosty demeanor once more intact. Her curls were now loose on her shoulders. The monkey hopped onto her shoulder, gazing with her into the mirror. The soft light cast golden on her skin and she felt a brief satisfaction at where she was, who she was.

"You may go now," Marisa dismissed and the girl left, switching off the anbaric light as she went, leaving only a candle burning.

Marisa crawled into her bed, the monkey curling up beside her. Edward had paperwork and would not be with her for another hour.

"Can we get away with falling asleep?" the monkey asked.

"Yes, this once, I think. But he can't get bored with us," Marisa warned.

The monkey, satisfied, moved his warm body closer to Marisa. She rose for a moment, blowing out the candle.

Once the room was filled with darkness, she let her head sink onto the pillows and imagined.

He turned the rusted key in the lock, pushing the antique door open. Dust filled his lungs as he walked in, the hall barely visible with the swirling air, stirred by his entrace. When the dust clears, he saw that the hall looked untouched since he'd last been there, aging but unchanged.

10 Grancourt Place had been the home of the Belacquas for centuries, going from father to son, father to son ever since some long-forgotten Belacqua had won a battle or saved a life and had been granted the title.

One of the few remaining Belacquas stood in the hall, his eyes sharp and critical of his surroundings. The house had once intimidated him, even frightened him. When he was a child, he would dare himself to walk the darker parts of the house, his daemon shifting into constantly fiercer forms to protect him from ghasts, real or imaginary.

Now the house seemed to him merely a pathetic, broken old curio, incapable of touching him, let alone causing him harm. He hadn't been there for over ten years and never as a man, never as the master.

"So, London again," the leopard at his feet remarked, her tone disdainful.

"Don't I know it," Lord Asriel replied.

"You should go to bed," she suggested, "It's been a hard journey."

"Not just yet," Asriel cut her off, moving forward, the leopard trailing behind him.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"Exploring. That's what we do, isn't it?" Asriel retorted, smiling.

The hall was like a cavern, an empty fireplace on one end. Everything was marble, cold black marble. Iron staircases twisted, up and up to a barely visible roof.

"I don't think I'll ever like this place," Stelmaria admitted.

"We'll have to get used to it. It's ours now."

Asriel stopped his walk, letting his eyes wander over the hall. Though as a child, it had terrified him, the large, cold house seemed to suit him now.

"How long do we stay?" Stelmaria curled herself round his leg.

"As long as we must. We look for an expedition as soon as we can. We do have to stay long enough to convince London masses of the new discoveries."

"And they'll cry heresy in minutes."

"Naturally. Phrased correctly, though and with the right facts behind it, it's worth a try. And don't tell me there aren't reasons to stay."

Stelmaria arched her back and gave a small growl.

"What do you think of her?" she asked.

"Interesting but not to be trusted."

"No."

They became silent for a few moments. She _had_ been interesting, unfathomable and he'd spent most of the evening watching her speak and move, her dark eyes glittering, her smile curving and the sway of her body as she walked. She was intoxicating.

She was a danger, clever, hypnotizing and perhaps a little desperate. She was different from the witches he had known before. To a witch, he was ephemeral. It was all the same whether he left or died, whether he stayed six months or sixty years. It was a mere second to her. This woman was different.

"Where do we sleep?" Stelmaria questioned.

"Father's room."

The leopard's eyes became a little wider.

"I am master now," Asriel reminded her.

When they were children, Lord Sariol Belacqua had scared them nearly as much as the house where he lived. His tiger would hold Stelmaria in her teeth or under her claws and Asriel would wince, fighting to avoid crying out. It was a test of stength, he'd known that even then. He would always match it.

The last time he'd seen his father, he had been twelve and at boarding school. The Lord, after asking his son a few questions about his schoolwork and his behavior, had taken a long, hard look at Stelmaria.

"Is she settled?" he'd inquired, his eyes boring into his son's.

"Yes." Asriel had tilted his chin upward, defiant. Stelmaria had moved in front of him, protecting Asriel and showing off her new form at once.

Lord Sariol took in Stelmaria's new aspect, her long teeth and sharp claws, her thick fur and watchful, clever, green eyes, eyes that could see others without letting the others see them.

He gave a short, curt, approving nod.

The next Asriel heard, his father had taken a fever and died within days. The family money would go to his education and be his once he turned eighteen, along with the title of Lord Belacqua.

Asriel did not grieve.

And now, after the years at Jordan College and in the North, he was back. Now he was back and he was Lord Belacqua. Now he was back and gave orders and never took them.

And he would sleep in his father's room, the master's room.

"Come, Stelmaria," he ordered and the leopard followed him, proud as her master.


	4. Teasing

Political speeches are notorious for being absolutely meaningless and Edward Coulter had chosen not to break with this time-honored and respected tradition. His speech was littered with political jargon and indecipherable code words. Afterwards, several very eminent scholars returned home rubbing their heads and wondering if they weren't as intelligent as they'd always thought themselves to be.

Marisa, the lone woman in the room, had her eyes on her husband as he spoke. The monkey fidgeted beneath her chair, stretching his neck for a better look at his surroundings.

"Stop that," Marisa hissed, "We have to look like we're paying attention. More that that. We have to look captivated."

Support was one of the main parts of being a politician's wife. A _senator's_ wife (Marisa thrilled at the prospect) had to seem to put her husband before all else. She would decorate his arm, agree with all his opinions and never allow an independent thought to drift into her delicate mind.

In Marisa's case at least, this was the price she paid to hold power nobody knew about.

A pity nobody could see her laugh.

She drew the monkey into her arms. He was restless, more than usual. He often felt stifled, wanting to run wild while she held him and bade him quiet.

She heard footfalls behind her, and the scratch of paws (so familiar), but kept her eyes fixed on Edward, though she wondered who had arrived halfway through the speech. Rude man, she told herself, rude. The monkey, though, whipped his head round to see the latecomer.

"It's him. Asriel," he whispered in her ear.

Marisa tensed, but kept her eyes forward.

"Hello, Marisa." His voice held a certain smirk, she thought. If voices could smirk.

"You do know it's rude to show up halfway through a political speech, don't you?" She laughed a quiet, tinkling laugh.

"And so, I believe, is whispering during said political speech. And yet here we are."

Marisa turned a little, enough to see the man beside her. His eyes had a sort of fierce, hungry glitter to them but his half-smile seemed sincere.

Stelmaria was watching her monkey, taking him in with her eyes.

"Here we are," she echoed.

The monkey clasped Stelmaria's paw with his little black hand, examining it and stroking it at once. She growled in response. The monkey raised his eyes to meet Stelmaria's.

Marisa kept her own eyes forward, slightly embarrassed at her daemon's behavior.

"And if the necessary changes are made, provided, of course, the Church supports them," Edward droned from the front of the room.

"Do you still lack a last name, Mrs. Coulter?" Asriel asked. He did not seem to be mocking her.

"Please don't call me that. I introduced myself as Marisa."

The monkey kept Stelmaria's gaze.

"Marisa, then." He repeated his words from the party.

"Thank you." Her tone was brittle, empty. She could have been thanking him for passing a glass of Tokay.

"What do you see in him?" Asriel turned his head towards her, almost forcing her to turn and look at him. She hoped nobody noticed.

"That's a rather personal question."

"I was merely curious."

"I do hope you aren't offended when I don't answer."

The monkey drew away from the leopard, hissing. Stelmaria looked a little sad, a touch disappointed, but unmoved. She knew he would return.

"Not at all," he responded.

"That's good to know."

"And are you happy with him?" Asriel inquired, Stelmaria fixing her claw in the monkey's fur, pulling him back to meet her.

"And what makes you think that if I refused to answer your previous question, I would answer this one?" Marisa scoffed.

The monkey jerked out of Stelmaria's clutches, baring his teeth.

"Perhaps you owe me, Marisa." His voice was soft.

"I owe you nothing," she laughed, the monkey drawing back still further.

They remained silent for a moment.

"While, foremost, adhering to the wishes of the King and Church and hopefully keeping England the country it has been and shall remain!" Edward finished. He lacked the voice, the passion, the drive to make the speech powerful and it came out unmemorable.

All the same, voters liked Edward Coulter. He was not imperious or intimidating (that could be left to the King himself) but he seemed to the public a trustworthy man, one who would look out for their interests.

Marisa clapped at the end, ever ladylike, pressing her hands lightly together. She noted the speech garnered enough applause. Nothing impressive, but enough.

The monkey was smiling at her feet, self satisfied.

"I must be going. It was good to speak to you again, Asriel."

"You as well, Marisa." He seemed to mean it.

She rose and went to stand by her husband, the perfect wife. Asriel continued to watch her as she went, Stelmaria growling softly.

She took the gray fur from its hanger, pulling it on.

"It's good to be leaving," the monkey snorted, "His speeches are so dull."

"Don't be rude," Marisa reprimanded, though she agreed with him. He was her wild self, she always thought, the part of her that voiced thoughts and never hesitated. She had found him odd, once, when she was a child. Other children's daemons would pull back, question rightness, moralize, and worry, while their humans went forward.

If anyone questioned or held back in this pair, it was Marisa.

She wrapped the fur round herself, almost ready to leave the cloakroom, when she heard the door creak open.

She knew who it was before even looking.

"I seem to see you everywhere, don't I?" she laughed. Asriel laughed with her, a deep, wild sound.

"Perhaps you're following me," he suggested.

"I think it may be the other way round," she countered lightly.

"You never answered my question."

Stelmaria moved closer, reaching for the monkey, a hungry look in her eye.

"Am I obligated to answer all your questions now, Asriel?"

"Yes."

Marisa turned away, buttoning her coat.

"You're truly improper, do you know that?"

"I'm still waiting for my answer."

Stelmaria moved closer to the monkey, casting her shadow over him. He smiled, his face twisting and fur bristling.

"Why do you care?" Marisa's laughter was brittle and nervous.

"I'm merely curious," he repeated.

He took her hand, lifting it to his face. She stepped forward, the monkey mimicking her, sinuous.

Her face was under an inch from his.

"Marriage," she lilted, "is an advantage, a blessing and a trap."

And then, on complete impulse, she was kissing him, her lips barely brushing his. It was a teasing kiss, a calculated kiss. The monkey drew his hands through Stelmaria's fur.

"You're not contained by it, though." Asriel laughed.

"I am not. Now if you will excuse me, I must be going."

She strode through the door, a light smile teasing her lips. She will keep the smile for the rest of the day.


	5. Fools

It was later that night. Marisa was dressing, silent as her husband spoke. Rain fell outside, drumming like the sound of an approaching army, painting her window. It was what she heard most, even as she listened to her husband.

"Did you enjoy the speech?" Edward asked, loosening his tie. He seemed nervous, unsure. His fox, Gabriele, inched closer to the monkey, nearly demanding his comfort, his reassurance.

The monkey did not like demands.

"Very much, Senator Coulter," Marisa smiled, kissing him on his dry cheek. The monkey took Gabriele in his long, thin arms, stroking her fur and cooing, the distasteful expression barely visible on his face.

"Now, let's not be presumptuous," Edward laughed, embarrassed.

"There's no question in it," Marisa reassured him. She rose from her seat on the bed, going to the closet and searching for her dressing gown.

The rain continued to drum.

Thump-thump.

It was as though it was calling her, telling her to leave, run through London disheveled and free.

"You've had that sort of freedom before," the monkey reminded her.

Marisa sighed and continued to search through her closet.

"I saw you speaking to Asriel Belacqua," Edward called, tentative.

The monkey tensed, his fur bristling. Gabriele, not seeming to notice, moved towards him and placed a light paw on his back.

"Did you?" Marisa's voice shook a little.

"During the speech, yes."

Marisa had hoped she had not been seen.

"Oh, darling, he does drone on. I couldn't get him to quiet."

"Does he?" Edward's voice brightened a little. Gabriele ensnared her paw in the monkey's fur. Immediately, instinctively, he fought to get free before seeming to remember his task, his place and allow himself to be touched.

"And he's such a dull man!" Marisa lied, the words flowing from her lips with impossible ease.

The monkey smirked.

"Is that so? I admit, I only spoke to him a little at the party a few nights ago."

"Oh, yes. It was impolite, speaking so during a political speech, of all things. I admit, his thoughts on the democratic structure of the ice bears are interesting but he is so terribly dogmatic."

Marisa and the monkey smiled twin smiles as she pulled on her dressing gown. She moved over to the bed and sat down next to Edward.

"That is good to know," Edward mused.

"You weren't worried, were you, darling?" Marisa simpered, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"N-No," Edward stammered.

"You needn't. Not ever, do you understand?"

"I love you." There was a weakness to his tone, a nervousness.

"I love you," she lied, making her voice sweet and light. The monkey stroked Gabriele's fur, grimacing slightly.

Edward reached for Marisa and she cringed as his fingers brushed her skin. She rarely liked to be touched.

It so often felt like invasion.

She tensed, wanting to let herself recoil.

"It's the price we pay," the monkey whispered.

She let her mind drift far away.

When she awoke, the room was filled with light. The rain had stopped in the night, leaving only traces of wet on the buildings. Her bed was empty. Marisa sighed, a smile drifting over her face.

"We're alone," she whispered to the monkey.

She heard footsteps from the other end of the room and saw Ana, drawing the curtains as her Jack Russell daemon worked beside her, dutiful, hardworking yet with a look of being far away.

The windows showed her London, twisting spires and cobbled streets, zeppelins drifting above and hansom cabs driving below.

Marisa gave a little, delighted laugh, feeling like a child for a moment. The monkey smiled too, for once without a trace of mocking.

"Shall I fetch your dressing gown, madam?" Ana asked, spinning round from her place at the windows.

"Yes, yes," Marisa purred.

Ana rose and pulled the robe onto Marisa's shoulders. Marisa yanked it away from her, not wanting to be touched by the girl.

Ana moved away, dutiful.

"Shall I run you a bath, madam?" she offered, her terrier staring with dead, dutiful eyes at the monkey.

"Not just now, I think, Ana."

"Mr. Edward is away at a meeting, madam and says he will not be back until this evening, to take you to see Kralefsky. He has instructed the staff to fix you breakfast whenever you choose."

Ah, yes, Kralefsky. The famed illusionist, the mind reader, the man who London would not stop speaking about. Everybody who was anyone in London would see him that night but Marisa had no real excitement about it.

She had no interest in illusions.

"Thank you, Ana. You may go now," Marisa dismissed, the monkey pushing the terrier from the room.

"A whole day to ourselves," the monkey marvelled, climbing on the window ledge to better see the city.

"A day without duty!"

"A day of freedom!"

She scooped the monkey up in her arms and they twirled around in a childish dance, laughing, before returning to themselves. The innocent moment was over as quickly as it began.

It was Marisa's belief that love, pretty delusion that it was, never helped anyone. It tore them down, made them weak.

Twenty-four years before, Bridget Callahan, scullery maid to the Lord Raphael, nineteen and pretty, caught the eye of Jack Shaw, his second footman. No Lord considered it proper to allow his servants to engage in any kind of romance. But Bridget did not break his eye contact as she should have. She held it.

If Bridget had been cleverer, she would have returned to her scrubbing and pushed the feelings away. She would have known her place, known her duty and what it took to survive, even though it wasn't right. But then, if Bridget were cleverer, there would be no story.

Bridget and Jack, in their cloud of naivete and so-called love, would sneak to see each other in their rare free hours, talking in the remote parts of the grounds where nobody would spy them, hoping not be seen by the housekeeper. Bridget would tiptoe in the night, praying not be heard as she wandered to Jack's room, her cocker spaniel daemon trailing behind her and begging her to go back.

They whispered silly, meaningless nonsense in each other's ears about escape. He would find a well paying job, support her, marry her.

Dreams mean nothing if they only spoken on, never fought for.

When Bridget became with child, she tried at first to conceal it. She would pull at the front of her uniform, attempting to loosen it. She would run from her duties to be sick, making the other maids raise their eyebrows and giggle.

Everyone has a secret, buried joy in watching a rival, even an insignificant one, go down and all the maids were opponents in some small wat. They waited for the housekeeper to notice Bridget's condition and were glad it was not them.

It did not take too long. The housekeeper had sharp eyes and soon enough, she noticed Bridget's sicknesses and the roundness of her belly.

She was immediately dismissed.

Nobody even asked who the father was. He could stay without question. If it had been known, he would have probably been given nothing more than a stern warning.

Jack, lovesick young man that he was, took a pound of his month's wages and married Bridget at a registry office. He did not wear his ring to work.

Most of Jack's wages went to Bridget, finding her a play to stay, however modest or seedy. Bridget, however, grew thin and frail, unnourished. It seemed the child within her was sapping her strength.

She gave birth in a boardinghouse, without proper medical care, without a midwife, with only an inexperienced landlady beside her. Jack Shaw returned on his free day to find himself a father but no longer a husband.

Bridget had, in her last moments, named her daughter Marisa. It seemed she was born for destruction.


	6. The Illusionist

Most illusionists were relegated to music halls, playing for servants on their free days. The crowd would strain to see through the smoke that filled the halls, watching the magician's hands twist and move as he flipped through cards, summoned thin, projector-made spirits and pulled birds from his sleeves, setting them loose into the city in a ruffle of bent feathers and straining wings.

This was not the case for Stefan Kralefsky, or the Great Kralefsky, as people liked to call him. The Dream-Summoner, the Spirit-Builder, The Miracle-Caller, as well. The Church had led investigations against him twice but had never found anything to suggest Kralefsky's work was anything more than colored light and trapdoors, projected images and clockwork.

"I cannot do magic," he insisted, "True magic is not bright and spinning, it had no puffs of smoke. It cannot be shown on a stage. I will leave true magic to the witches. I am only a man and I deal in illusion."

All the same, he left his audiences astounded, buzzing with chatter, their minds whirring as they tried to figure him out. He refused to ever explain a trick, a custom that would have been familiar to any music hall patron but left high society frustrated and perplexed.

When he came to London, everyone who dared to think of themselves as important attended his performance and few forgot it.

The Royal Theater was a maze of lounges, boxes and lobbies, coated in plush, scarlet carpet, thick enough to make some clutch the wall for balance, hoping nobody saw them doing so. Throngs were pushing round, anxious to get to their seats. A buzz of talk filled the room. Reporters poised their pens over blank sheets of paper, each wanting to write the first story, the best story.

The best seat by far was an overhanging box, above the crowd but below the balcony, seating ten or twelve, with two twisting staircases coming down from either side of it. This box did not belong to anyone in particular. It was a box for visiting Indian mahjarahs, for the highest of lords, for prominent explorers, for the King's party, even occasionally for the King himself.

Marisa sat in the center seat, her diamonds pricking her skin. She kept her eyes forward but the monkey stole glances at the people around her, waiting for the box to fill, waiting for someone else to come. They both knew who to expect.

Edward placed a hand on her arm in a show of ownership, continuing to talk to the men around them. Marisa itched to add her part to the conversation, but remained quiet. She stared at the stage, marveling at its spareness. On most nights, the Royal boasted lavish sets. Tonight, the curtain had already been drawn and the stage was bare but for two wooden chairs, a table and a large mirror.

Minutes passed in a blur of chatter before the lights in the house began to fade and the stage lights brightened. Marisa heard heavy footfalls, paws, and someone slipping into the seat beside her. She smiled, satisfied.

She knew who it was.

Even as the lights went up, the stage remained empty. Minutes went by and the talk which had died down began again, the journalists scribbling wildly, their faces lit up.

It was a moment before the audience noticed the hands. Two gloved hands, unattached to a body, working in animated gestures, placing objects on the table. Then there was a pair of brilliant red wings, fluttering round the hands, helping them.

The audience nudged each other, looking forward at last.

It was arms next, covered in black tuxedo sleeves and there were a pair of thorny black legs accompanying the wings. So it went on, body, legs, neck appearing until man and daemon were almost entirely on stage, missing only their heads.

The audience let out a collective gasp, marveling at the trick while trying to mask their horror.

The man's head appeared, pale, bearded, and gaunt, along with his daemon's, a firebird. They bowed in unison.

"Stefan Kralefsky," he announced, in a deep, accented voice, putting his hand up to stop the applause.

"Not yet," he smiled, showing gleaming teeth, "Soon you will see something worth applauding for."

"Fantastic, isn't he?" marveled Edward, continuing to clap despite Kralefsky's protest. Gabriele, however, was keeping her wide eyes on the monkey, snaring her claws into his fur. She darted frequent glances at Stelmaria as well, who was watching the monkey with curious eyes.

The monkey wrenched himself out of Gabriele's grip and moved towards Stelmaria, returning her gaze.

"No," Marisa hissed.

It was too late. Edward had a wounded expression on his face before seeming to remember himself and turning his face back to the stage.

Asriel continued to stare at Marisa, his expression unchanged, full of fire. She glared at him and turned back to the performance, the monkey mimicking her.

"Now, for something more impressive," Kralefsky went on, the firebird flying in circles round his head, excited.

He held his hand out flat in front of him and began pulling at his fingers, extracting something translucent and silvery from their tips. The substance began taking the shape of fingers, long and tapered, and as Kralefsky continued to pull, hands became visible. After a moment, stopped moving but the hands did not, becoming long, slim arms. This person took the shape of a lady, pale-eyed and ethereal, a dove daemon perched on her shoulder.

Kralefsky put his hands on front of him, moving them forward and back, the firebird pushing his wings in a similar motion. The lady, marionette-like, obeyed his movements, moving wherever he wished her to.

The audience applauded and Kralefsky moved his hand in a swift, sharp motion, erasing the woman altogether.

"For the next part of the show," Kralefsky began, "I will need helpers. Two of them. Please do not volunteer, I will select you myself. And I must ask, if I happen to choose you, do not protest."

Kralefsky stepped from the stage and began moving through the aisles with an eerie, gliding grace. He and the firebird would inspect each passing face, then shake their heads in unison and move on.

He walked up the staircase to Marisa's box, stepping over the small, locked door on the outside of it. Kralefsky scanned the faces in the box without apology, making the men draw back. Their daemons attempted to claw at or bite the firebird, but he would fly higher, out of their reach. It was as though Kralefsky had seen something in them they did not like. They were not accustomed to such disrespect.

He spent a moment longer on Marisa. He had found something of interest in her face and the firebird flapped his wings with excitement at the sight of the golden monkey.

"Is this the one?" the firebird breathed.

"I think so," Kralefsky responded, motioning for Marisa to rise.

He spent another age on Lord Asriel, searching his features. Asriel, unlike the other men, remained impassive, not caring whether the illusionist left or stayed.

"How interesting," the firebird remarked.

"Very," Kralefsky responded, and waved his hand to Asriel, beckoning them both onto the stage.

Not quite knowing why, they followed.


	7. Marionettes

Stefan Kralefsky knew faces. It was almost a game to him, to examine a face, to search the glint of an eye or the set of a mouth, to look for what was within and determine whether it was worth looking at.

He did not look for morality, honesty or trustworthiness. He did not even look for strength, charm or beauty.

Kralefsky looked for interest, any quality outside the usual. He could spot it at once, on any face, sitting in on of his theaters, serving him in a shop, passing him on a street or across a restaurant table.

The woman with the dark, burning eyes and slight smell of metal emanating from her skin drew his eye, as did the man beside her with the proud, dark face and regal air surrounding him. There was something glittering beneath their surfaces, something he could not name, something that intrigued him.

It was so rare to find people such as them, especially so near each other. Most of time, the ones that caught his eye were separated by several rows, surrounded by the ordinary.

Kaspar, his daemon, was beckoning the two forward and they followed. The man was staring at the woman, while she kept her face forward, proud.

"What were you thinking?" the woman hissed.

"I wasn't thinking anything, as you should be aware, Marisa."

"Clearly you weren't."

The woman's daemon, a lustrous golden monkey, snarled. The man's, a larger, proud snow leopard, growled in response.

"You were the one who---"

They had reached the stage. Marisa put one finger over her lips.

It was time to be seen.

Lord Asriel watched her expression change, smoothing into something sweeter, more wide-eyed. The golden monkey climbed into her arms, docile. He wondered, for a moment, at these two Marisas and how she seemed to flow between them with such ease.

"Sit," Kralefsky commanded, gesturing to the chairs.

Mrs. Coulter crossed the stage, her movements calculated and sinuous, draping herself across the chair. Asriel followed, a king walking towards his coronation.

Kralefsky smiled.

Mrs. Coulter lifted her eyes to the ceiling, avoiding Asriel's gaze. She was sure it was still on her, she could feel it and she heard Stelmaria's low growl. She tried not to look towards the audience, towards Edward. The monkey turned away in pointed derision.

Kralefsky turned to the audience.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I must warn you, do not trust your eyes too closely tonight. We go through our lives depending on our eyes, taking in everything we see and accepting it as absolute truth. But sometimes the eyes lie to us, ladies and gentlemen, sometimes what we see is not the truth. Such is the power of illusion, when the mind screams one truth and the senses tell another."

He turned towards the pair.

"Tonight I will attempt to alter this gentleman and this lady's perceptions and your views of them, among other tricks. Stand, if you please."

They rose, each seeming at once conscious and unaware of the eyes on them. Asriel did not look at the crowd, barely seemed to care they were there. There was heat falling on Marisa's skin, the monkey shivering with some excitement she couldn't name.

Later, she decided it must have been sin.

Kralefsky looked over the two of them, deciding what to do next. Kaspar whispered something in his ear and he nodded, waving a hand to send Asriel back to the chair and draw Mrs. Coulter forward.

"Take a look at this lady. I do not think any one of you would deny that she is beautiful."

There was a general murmur of agreement. It might have made some women blush. Mrs. Coulter, however, stood straighter, a smile teasing her face and the monkey letting out soft laughter.

"Yet she is a delicate creation, she is ephemeral. I shall not ask her age but her youth is no secret. Time passes faster than any of us expect it will."

He touched Mrs. Coulter's arm, in a way so gentle, so lightly creeping it made her cringe, the closest thing to fear she ever felt from another human being.

"She will not always be as she is now. Before she realizes it, she will be forty, with nearly all her beauty intact, just beginning to fade."

He released her arm and there was a short gasp from the audience, straining to see her face better. When she looked down at her hands, she could see the very beginning of fine lines.

"Still, she will be almost as lovely as she is today. But time is set in motion. It will not stop, it cannot stop. She will then reach sixty."

He touched her arm once more and she recoiled from his touch, not bothering to conceal her displeasure as she did with Edward. The monkey hissed, a certain fear and vulnerability about his aspect that was not there before.

There was a gasp from the house.

Marisa looked up, for the first time, at Edward, from his seat in the audience. His eyes were narrowed, critical, displeased with her.

Stefan Kralefsky also knew fears. He was an expert at pinpointing them, after examining the face, to determine what people ran to and from, what they wished and what they feared.

He could not always find the deepest, most genuine fear but he could always find at least one, one that moved powerfully within his subjects.

The best shows induced fear.

The heat of the naphtha lights was pricking Marisa, making her feel dizzy. The monkey perched himself on her hip, clinging to her and attempting to keep her awake.

Her bones and skin felt no different, so he must have been casting an illusion. Must have!

"Eighty."

Again the touch came and went, the audiences making more noises and straining closer. Marisa had never disliked being watched before.

She did not look behind her at Lord Asriel.

"Of course, I do not know the lady's future, my magic does not extend that far. Perhaps her airship will crash tomorrow, freezing her as she is today in all memories but her own. Perhaps she will live to be over one hundred, older than I shall take her here. Perhaps she will be taken by another epidemic, such as the cholera of years past or perhaps, like many women, childbirth will have her, exchanging one life for another. I can say, however, for absolute certain, that one day she will die, snuffed out like us all. She has few ways of predicting it and no way of avoiding it."

Kralefsky touched her arm once more and Marisa, dream-like, felt her limbs stiffening, her body involuntarily falling in on itself, the monkey still free and moving but unable to assist his mistress.

She was falling backward, powerless, and before she hit the cold, hard stage, hands pushed her up and lifted her into a chair. They were strong hands, warm, Lord Asriel's. There was no tenderness or gentleness in the gesture, only a barrier between her and the ground. He did not want her to fall. That was all and enough.

"Thank you," she murmured, finding herself able to speak.

Asriel gave her a quick, curt nod and Mrs. Coulter turned towards the stage, twenty-three once more.

Stefan Kralefsky knew fears. He and Kaspar bowed to the applause.

"Yes, you may applaud now," he grinned, something menacing in his expression, "But I am not yet finished. Sir, I daresay you have been feeling excluded." He turned to Lord Asriel.

"I've survived," Asriel snorted, Stelmaria raising a paw in regal, laconic boredom.

"The next illusion involves both you and the lady. I did not call you to the stage for no reason, sir."

"I assumed not."

"Stand next to her, if you please."

Marisa noted that however imperious Kralefsky behaved around most in the theater, he seemed to reserve a sort of nervous courtesy for Lord Asriel.

"It makes sense," the monkey noted.

Lord Asriel appeared to hold power over everyone, no matter how commanding or forceful they were. One look and they were silenced.

This rule applied to her as well, in a different way, one she did not know it yet.

Asriel rose and stood next to Marisa. He was not near enough to touch her but she could imagine it, tensing. She felt a strange heat, something she could not name.

The monkey shivered.

She found images running through her mind, the two of them entwining. his skin, her skin, things she hadn't wished for before, not with anyone.

There was so much heat.

"Everyone has magic in them, some stronger than others. It is a strange, explosive mixture of force and will. This next trick does not involve myself. Sir, if you will take the lady's hands?"

Kralefsky had not once referred to them by their names, never even asked for them. They were "sir" and "the lady", his curios, his marionettes.

Marisa admired the dignity with which Asriel held himself, regal even while partly the magician's puppet. She wondered whether she could ever be like that.

"I think so," the monkey whispered.

Asriel took each of Marisa's hands, holding them firm. She felt there was a sort of anbaric current running through them, from him to her and back again. She felt faint but stood taller.

She was not afraid.

"Close your eyes."

She obeyed. The two of them could have been standing anywhere, far from the crowd that surrounded them, the eyes she was sure were watching them (Edward's eyes, most of all).

"I want each of you to muster every bit of force in your minds and souls. Your daemons should do so, as well. Every part of your strength and concentration you can put to anything, to any effort, any task, you must take and use now."

It was somehow outside her will. Marisa felt her spirit, the fire inside her going into her hands. His hands grew hotter under her touch.

They were burning.

"Do you have it? Good. Keep your eyes closed. I want you to fill your minds with one word. Up. Picture yourselves higher and higher, pulled by force that is not your own."

Up. Up. Up.

She rarely did what she was told but now it was as if she had been hypnotized, forces pulling her form, her mind.

Up. Up. Up.

Marisa could see their bodies and daemons, suspended above the crowds, little specks below her.

Up. Up. Up.

She could hear distant voices in her mind. Asriel's, Stelmaria's, Kralefsky's, his firebird's, her monkey's. And she heard her own voice, icy and strong, without a trace of the sweetness she laded on it in for most people.

"Up. Up. Up," they chanted, their voices running together and overlapping.

Marisa felt her feet lift, pulled as though by a marionette string, and an involuntary laugh left her, burning with the power of it.

"Do you feel it?" she asked the monkey.

"Yes. I am lifting as you are."

She gripped Asriel's hands tighter, filled with an intense, greedy joy.

"Do you feel it?" she inquired.

He said nothing, grasping her hands.

"Remember," Kralefsky commanded, "do not fear. Do not resist. I will tell you when you may open your eyes. If you let each other's hands loose, you will fall."

Her feet were swinging in her air, the monkey gripping Stelmaria's fur as if to pull it out, his fierce joy apparent.

The marionette string drew them further and further.

Marisa had wanted to be a witch when she was a child, enchanted by the idea of the power, the beauty, the near-immortality and most of all, the flight. She thrived on this.

"But we're not flying," the monkey breathed, "We're powerless. He's the one propelling us."

"Ignore it," Marisa hissed, "We're here. Up."

She wondered how Kralefsky was doing it, whether he had somehow fixed transparent strings to her body without her noticing, whether he had commanded some magnetic force. Or perhaps he had been lying to the Church, avoiding heresy charges and prison. Perhaps it was real.

Marisa could feel the top of her head brushing the stage ceiling and her body was being pulled to the side with excruciating gentleness, to the higher ceilings of the main theater. There were gasps below. She wondered what Edward was thinking, watching as she and Asriel were drawn higher and higher as he remained bound to earth, stuck in his seat.

Marisa laughed once more, high, rough and a little wild. This was her real laugh, not the tinkling silver noise she put on.

"We've stopped moving," the monkey noted and though she still felt the pull of the imaginary string, it was moving her no longer.

"You may open your eyes now," called Kralefsky's distant voice.

She must have been a hundred feet above the audience. Their eyes, miniature black beads, were fixed on the figures above. She could not find Edward in the crowd. He was not real. Nothing was real.

"Keep your hands tight!" Kralefsky shouted.

Asriel had a fierce half-smile playing on his face, as if to show that the display pleased him, merely pleased him. His eyes swept the room and the smile widened only slightly.

"Look at them, Marisa," he breathed into her ear, looking at the masses below, "They're dead, every one of them. We're alive."

It was what she had been thinking herself.

"I expect you've seen far greater things in the North."

"I have, if only by virtue of their reality."

"I see."

She did not say that she wished for him to show them to her, that she wanted to see everything that she had never seen, that petty society influence could never be enough.

"It's nothing," the monkey whispered, "It's sin."

She quieted him, not sure whether the sin he spoke of was the future she was entertaining or the touch of Asriel's hands or the unnatural way she had been plucked from the stage.

Or perhaps it was the wish for more than simply their hands touching and to fly higher than the top of a theater.

Back when she had lived with her father, still half-civilized, he had taken her to church every Sunday.

She would daydream during sermons, letting only a few lines creep into her mind.

She remembered only one now.

"The Authority has given each of us everything that we need. It is the gravest, lowest sin to wish for more."

She did want more, though, she wanted more at that moment, more than her hands in his and needing marionette strings to fly.

"Now, I want you to fill yourselves with the idea of lowering. Not falling, lowering. Picture your bodies and daemons being moved by gentle force, never crashing or being hurt. Do not let go. Close your eyes once more."

The leaving disturbed Marisa, filling her with a an icy, sinking sensation. Still, she was pulled, until she felt her feet touching the stage.

"You may release each other now. Open your eyes."

Mrs. Coulter smiled for the audience, making sure to weave traces of relieved fear into her expression. The monkey was still wound like a clockwork toy, rubbing his hands together and jumping round.

Marisa shot Asriel a triumphant smile.

"There is one last trick I will perform before sending the two of you back to your seats."

Kralefsky drew a hand forward and the large mirror from the back of the stage was being pulled towards them.

"Can everyone in the audience see what is reflected in the mirror?" he inquired, Kaspar worked into a passionate agitation.

There were general, affirmative sounds.

"Good. Now, sir and madam, please stand in front of the mirror."

They moved to the mirror. Marisa eyed the two of them in the mirror. They were opposites. She was delicate, small, pale, polished. Her features were unreadable, as if they had been carved from ice. He was tall, strong, rough, tanned. Fire played across his face.

Their identical dark eyes were burning.

"Can every one of you still see the reflections in this mirror?" Kralefsky asked.

There was a chorus of agreement.

"I should warn you, this is no ordinary mirror. I found it in my travels through the Indies. I wish I could provide explanation for the images it shows and what they mean. I have spent considerable time pondering it myself."

There were sounds of excitement and disappointment from the house.

"Sir and madam, I wish you to place your fingers lightly on the frame of the mirror. Do not touch the glass."

Her fingers felt tense and heavy as she lifted them, an odd nervousness coursing through her.

"Wait. It does not take long," Kralefsky explained.

Was she imagining things or was there a frightening gleam in the firebird's eyes, like he wished to see the monkey hurt, perhaps Stelmaria as well?

Stelmaria turned her eyes to the firebird and gave a sharp, short growl. Both man and daemon looked somewhat pacified. Kralefsky was not malevolent, not truly. He was not capable of the same acts as the two subjects on his stage. He loved magic, fed on applause, lived to impress. He was a showman.

Marisa and Asriel watched the mirror, both unmoving. They waited, seeing nothing unusual.

Minutes passed.

The mirror began to cloud, swirling with smoke, though the air around them was clear. The crowd leaned forward, evidently seeing it as well.

When the glass cleared, there were two figures, nearly identical to the people looking in the mirror. There were only a few differences between them. Their faces were stiffer, a touch frozen and their clothing was old-fashioned, him in a swirling black and red cape, something metal glinting from near his belt, and her in a floor-sweeping dress, a black and red veil falling down her back. There was one difference that eclipsed all others, however. They had no daemons.

There was a horrified gasp from behind them. Marisa gazed at this other self, the monkey clinging to her leg in shock. Despite the absence of their daemons, their mirror-selves did not appear bothered or affected, as much life in them as their physical selves.

Marisa glanced at Asriel. He appeared fascinated with the picture, though Stelmaria had backed away in slight disgust, though not fear. Never fear.

Mirror-Asriel turned to Mirror-Marisa and held out his hand. She accepted it, her limbs jerking a little, like a clockwork figurine. They began to dance without music, a pleasant little waltz neither seemed to put much feeling into. The way they watched each other told of something else, some unseen cruelty nobody but the real Marisa and Asriel seemed to notice.

There was hollow clapping, everyone too disturbed by the missing daemons to care for the dance.

Marisa was transfixed by her other self, watching her twist and turn, plans glittering in her eyes.

Cunning as she seemed, she was afraid as well, darting glances behind her at some invisible onlooker. There was a mechanical stiffness beneath her grace.

The two of them were alone.

Mirror-Asriel was watching Mirror-Marisa in much the same way he did in life, intense. There was something else in this man, though, like a hunter. This Asriel, never blinked or hesitated, turning Marisa in an endless dance. Their eyes were locked.

The audience saw a pleasant waltz, two music box figures twirling round.

Round and round, they went. Marisa began to feel dizzy, though she herself was not moving. The monkey grasped her arm, comforting her.

Mirror-Marisa wrenched herself from her partner's arms. There was a childlike, pouty aspect in her expression, unlike her earthly counterpart. She stalked to the other side of the stage. Mirror-Asriel followed, none of her clockwork jerkiness in his movements.

They began a silent play-quarrel. He pleaded with her with an odd sincerity, looking more like his true self. As Mirror-Asriel grew more lifelike, Mirror-Marisa became still more stiff, doll-like, emotionless. She turned her head away in a calculated, petulant movement, giving him a pretty, false slap once.

There was nothing underneath her teasing, not fear, hope or even cruelty.

Mirror-Asriel was resembling the man still more, so much as to reach down and stroke an imaginary Stelmaria once. He began to shake Mirror-Marisa, trying to wake her. His predatory actions were gone. He seemed almost anguished.

"It's horrible," Marisa breathed.

"It's only a silly trick. He probably does the same routine for everyone." The monkey gave a hollow laugh.

Mirror-Marisa smiled, the corners of her bow lips pulling upwards in perfect motions, coy and false. Occasionally, there was a glimmer of some form of reality trying to escape in her face but it would vanish in an instant.

Mirror-Asriel had turned away, growing angry. There was no way he could move the woman opposite him. She was frozen in her mechanical cruelty. She was not human. His face twisted with hatred.

Marisa looked over at the real Asriel. His fixed intensity betrayed no emotion.

Mirror-Marisa was growing weary, her arms limp, even her face more lifelike, if only in its bitter fatigue. She attempted to keep up her marionette motions but could not. Little tears pricked her cheeks. Mirror-Asriel had not changed, either not noticing or not caring about the shift in Mirror-Marisa.

The real Marisa thought it more likely he did not care.

His hatred was more intense by the second, a furious passion on his face. When Mirror-Marisa collapsed on the ground, weeping, he ignored her. He drew the dagger (Marisa had always known, somehow, it was a dagger) from his belt.

The real Marisa shut her eyes.

When she opened them again, Mirror-Marisa was lying on the ground, a red mark on her ribcage. Mirror-Asriel was examining, as though he could not decide whether to spit on her corpse or cradle her, weeping.

The dream broke and the mirror was filled with smoke once more. When the image cleared, it was only a mirror.

Marisa moved away, not looking at Lord Asriel.

The applause was polite and disturbed, somehow empty. Kralefsky bowed, delighted.

"I am done with you, sir and madam."

Marisa stepped off the stage, rushing up the aisle. Asriel followed, keeping pace with her even when he did not rush.

"When we have returned to the box," Marisa whispered, "Do not sit next to me."

The monkey pulled at Stelmaria's fur, then released it.

"Why not?" Asriel inquired, Stelmaria taking the monkey's head in her paws, forcing him to face her.

"You know why not."

Did he? Was it the mirror, the sinister illusions in their cruel dance? He had murdered her in the image. Was it the new, tense, hunger she had felt before? Was it Edward's suspicion?

"Does it matter?"

"It is my wish. Please," Marisa pleaded.

"Then I will stand in the back."

"Thank you," she sighed, relieved yet somehow regretful.

As they moved down the aisle, Kralefsky lifted a hand and they were in their seats, without needing to move further.

Asriel rose, moving to the door at the back of the box and Edward placed one hand over Marisa's arm, proprietary and worried.

All was as before.

The curtain fell.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

As of this chapter, there is no longer any tie-in in this story to my other pieces. The scene shown in Weakness will be written in a different way that fits this story and plot and there will be some events in Torn Masks that don't happen in His, His, His and vice versa. Expect the unexpected, as Kralefsky would put it.

By the way, this chapter owes a special nod to Philip Pullman's Clockwork.


	8. Ready?

The weekend hunting party was the same as ever. There was the house with the same angles, the same stones, the same dusty, forgotten air. There were the same guests, ten or so at most, intent on learning secrets, tossing miniature insults from one to another. The same men with guns on their shoulders and the same woman, staying behind to compare dresses, houses, husbands.

The same name-cards on every bedroom door, their purpose hanging and unspoken.

Except that it was not the same.

Marisa and Edward Coulter, printed on a door for all to see.

Lord Asriel Belacqua, in bold letters, just across the hall.

Sooner or later, she thought, sooner or later.

Ready?

Ready.

"This is our Elisabeth," Franz, the host and the girl's brother, announced.

"A prominent family. German. He's here on Church business," the monkey hissed.

The girl dropped a stiff, old-fashioned curtsy, her pale, narrow eyes downcast, a moth-daemon fluttering round her shoulders. Her eyes remained lowered even after she herself had risen.

"I have heard so much about you, Miss Lindenstein. It is such a pleasure to finally meet you." The monkey scanned the room, searching for someone who was not there or not yet, at least.

"Thank you, Mrs. Coulter," Elisabeth stumbled in broken English, "I feel quite the same way."

"Do call me Marisa."

"And I Elisabeth."

Franz rose, his squirrel daemon perched on his shoulder and blank eyes fixed on the drinks table, leaving the two women to themselves.

"It is my pleasure," Marisa lied, a light smile creeping across her face, "This is your first season, am I correct?"

Elisabeth reddened, nodding.

"I fear I am making a terrible job of it," she confided, letting go of her strained composure.

"Not at all. I was far worse upon my season. In fact," Marisa leaned in as though she were telling a delicious secret, "I quite envy how well you handle it." Elisabeth blushed once more, looking pleased.

"Thank you, Mrs. Coulter."

"I tell you, it is Marisa!" Mrs. Coulter laughed, a light, tinkling sound.

"Thank you, Marisa."

"I am curious. Tell me, have all the guests arrived for the week-end?"

"Most, I think. There is an explorer Cristiana is excited about who has not come yet. I cannot recall his name."

The monkey bared his teeth, reaching for the still-flying moth. Marisa placed a hand on his back.

"Explorer? How terribly exciting! What sort of work does he do?"

"Northern exploration. Experimental theology, I should think. Cristiana says if he isn't careful he'll find himself in the same place as Rusakov."

She seemed pleased to have an important piece of information, as though it would make her belong.

Marisa bristled, both at this callous assessment and the girl's thoughtless, naive openness.

"Let us not talk of such unpleasant matters," Marisa warned.

"Of course not. I apologize." Elisabeth seemed to realize she had made a mistake. Her voice shook and her cheeks burned.

"Think nothing of it," Marisa dismissed, waving a hand. The girl smiled, impressed by her.

The moth landed in the monkey's outstretched palm.

"I want to see an explorer," Elisabeth mused, calmer, "It should be so exciting, someone who has been North and seen things. Everyone I am introduced to is dull."

She reddened, realizing what she had said.

"Oh, Mrs. Coulter, oh, I don't mean---" she stumbled.

Marisa laughed.

"I know what you meant. And just so that you know, explorers are nearly always just as dull, if not twice so."

Elisabeth's face dropped.

"I suppose you are correct," she said, "All I meet, all my suitors are dull old men and young fops. I should like to meet an explorer."

Not unusual words from an awkward, dreaming, naive girl's lips and they were dismissed at the time.

Marisa had been dreaming all week, waking up sweating, relieved and disappointed to rise with the sheets tangled round her and Edward sleeping at her side. It was inevitable, she knew, ever since the night of the theater it had been set.

They'd seen each other a few times, Edward always present, trading short, scalding glances and a few words.

It was not the same.

I hope you are enjoying your evening, Lord Asriel.

Yes, I am quite well, my Lord. And you?

Good-night, Lord Asriel. I trust you have enjoyed yourself.

And he would nod and give brief answers, his eyes never leaving her, a smile playing on his lips.

Once, just once, as she was leaving, he pulled her to him and whispered in her ear.

"I won't always stand aside when you ask me to, Marisa," he'd breathed.

"I know."

And then she'd slipped away.

Ready?

Ready.

He arrived an hour late and the room stopped, turning to see him.

How could they not?

The room was the same way for Marisa. She had been feeling eyes on her for the evening, for every evening. Polished, hard, sparkling.

For a moment, she imagined the two them walking in together, his arm around her as she smiled at the crowd. They would be the brightest in the room, always, surpassing everyone else.

But something made her shake off the thought, something she couldn't understand. In some way, it didn't seem right.

Every guest had their eyes poised on him, pretending to continue with their conversations, not to care.

The famous young explorer.

Well, well, well.

Marisa tried to smooth her face into blank disinterest, her hand clenching the monkey's fur, hoping she wasn't failing as miserably as the others.

Asriel did not seem to notice the room, or even notice her. He returned to his place by the wall, watching them all with faint, amused disinterest.

Him by the wall, her in the center.

That was how it went.

Cristiana, the hostess, her stiff face painted by rouge, rushed forward, her Siamese cat daemon trailing behind.

"Lord Asriel!" she cooed, "It is such a pleasure to see you!"

"The pleasure is mine," Asriel rumbled, indifferent.

Marisa covered her mouth with her glove, disguising the smile spreading across her face. He didn't even attempt to sound sincere.

Edward had twisted his lips into a grimace, turning his back, pretending to inspect the bookshelf.

Asriel threw a glance to where Marisa sat. Unlike their previous meetings, she did not avert her eyes.

Ready?

Ready.

"The shooting," brayed Sir Dullsworth, as Marisa had mentally dubbed him, a balding man with a sloth daemon, "is better this season than it has been in ten years. The country's absolutely running over with pheasants."

"That is good to hear," Cristiana simpered, "I'm sure you will bring back quite a bit. Franz, I must say, is an excellent hunter."

"My dear wife flatters me," Franz smiled, his eyes blank.

"English hunting is a dull, worthless pursuit," Asriel announced and all the heads whipped down to look at him.

"How have you decided that?" demanded Dullsworth.

"It is merely shooting at some slow creature in the woods or a pheasant in the sky without a trace of danger or a hint of risk. It's a way for cowards to feed their egos while remaining protected. How many men who brag of killing foxes would look a tiger in the eyes?" Asriel scoffed.

Marisa smirked. It was the most offensive thing he could have said at the table besides possibly professing loyalty to that new Muscovite heresy about distributing wealth and ridding the world of social classes or announcing that he did not believe in the Authority.

Both, she supposed, were faintly possible.

"And you have looked a tiger in the eyes?" Franz demanded.

"I've killed two."

"Well, isn't this nice?" Cristiana giggled, trying desperately to steer the conversation back to pleasant formality.

"I find hunting cruel," Elisabeth piped up, having been silent for nearly the entire meal.

"It's the natural order of things, my girl!" Dullsworth bellowed, "Haven't you heard the new theories? Experimental theologians say that the fittest survive, whatever the circumstances!"

"That's simple heresy!" Edward insisted.

"Excuse me," Marisa began, "I have a question for Lord Asriel."

The table became silent.

She smiled, a demure look passing over her face.

"If Lord Asriel has such a distaste for English hunting, why has he come this weekend?"

"Curiosity."

Asriel's eyes glittered, intense, looking her over.

"I see."

She did.

"If you'll excuse me," she said, "I need some air."

She left the table, knowing he would follow.

"Hello," she breathed, pressed against the stones of the balcony, taut, waiting.

"You've been planning this out, haven't you, Marisa?" Asriel laughed, mirthless, anticipating.

Their daemons moved on the floor, forward and back, back and forth, a waiting dance.

"You seem to follow wherever I go."

"Yes," he rumbled, his eyes running her up and down.

"Why is that?"

"Curiosity."

He brushed his fingers against her skin. She tensed, that same constriction as before.

So this is what they speak about.

She found herself remembering a church visit, many years ago, when her father was still lucid enough to drag her to Church instead of staying in his ordinary haze. The priest had hung pictures on the wall, cartoonish and grotesque. One, labeled Avarice, showed a man pulling gold coins toward him, his face hideous and distorted. Another picture, marked Envy, showed a woman, green-skinned and deformed, staring with malice at another woman, pale-haired alabaster-skinned angel with a blank-eyed dove daemon.

And then there was Lust. Lust, somehow still more repellant than the others, her bloodshot eyes bulging, thick lips parted in twisted wonder. She was a warning symbol, Lust.

Marisa hadn't been able to look away from her at the time, fascinated and horrified by this thing she did not yet understand, this Lust.

The Seven Deadly Sins. She'd never forgotten them.

In the years ahead, when a man would touch her, his eyes clouding over and his mouth hanging open, she would see Lust's face for his and laugh to herself.

Asriel's hand moved across her hip.

"No," she whispered, "Not here."

"I'm not the sort to deny myself for long, Marisa."

"You are not."

And in that moment he pulled her round to him. They were locked together, her hands tangled in his hair, his hands on her back.

There was no calculation in it, only impulse. Again there was that new, odd feeling, that tense heat.

It was not until they broke away that Lust's contorted face hung in front of Marisa's eyes, her red tongue lolling and stupid eyes wide.

"Ever since that day at the theater," she whispered, "Ever since then... It's as though I'm being pulled in a direction I don't want to go but I can't help it, I can't help anyth---"

He drew her to him again, rough, careless, ignoring her words.

"It's right, I promise. It's right," Asriel insisted.

"I don't know if I---"

"All of it is right."

"I---"

She had never imagined herself as Lust before.

"Sooner or later," the monkey whispered after Asriel had gone, his tone nervous this time.

"Tonight, I think," she mused, staring out the window.

It was set in motion. There was no way to stop.

Ready?

_I think so. I hope so._

Marisa,

Once your husband is asleep, leave your room and come across the hall to mine. I'll be waiting for you.

Asriel

Dear Asriel,

Yes.

Marisa


End file.
